


Sam's Christmas

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Asthma, Christmas, Delirium, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Except Everything Is Sorta Resolved But Only Just A Little Bit, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sam Winchester, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 02, Sick Sam Winchester, Snowed In, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: It's Christmas. Sam is sick. There is stuff they need to talk about but they can't fucking talk about. They're both fucked up over each other.So it's a regular Winchester Christmas, really.





	Sam's Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write something for Christmas. Here it is.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sam always gets sick around Christmas.

 

Sam’s immune system is made of steel; Dean can’t count how many times he’s been obliterated by the flu and Sam watches over him patiently, never once getting so much as a sniffle.

 

Maybe that’s just because Sam obsessively washes his hands, but hey.

 

Sam almost never gets sick.

 

But when he does, it’s bad.

 

And around Christmas.

 

Like clockwork.

 

Most people don’t know Sam has asthma.

 

That’s a good thing. “Most people” in their lives are baddies, so it’s information best kept locked up inside their brains. It’s easy to hide since Sam rarely has an attack; the inhaler is a more a formality than anything else. When he was a little kid, he needed it more, but now, Sam can sprint after a monster full-tilt and be no worse for wear.

 

Except at Christmas.

 

At Christmas, Sam needs his inhaler.

 

It’s a bitch to steal one; they’re expensive, too, and Sam and Dean don’t have Primary Care Physicians or what the fuck ever. It’s tempting to forgo it, but every Christmas they remember exactly why they still keep one around.

 

So, when December starts hitting her twenties, Dean keeps a close eye on Sammy and the security at the local pharmacy.

 

Sam hates it.

 

Sam hates Christmas.

 

Dean doesn’t know why. Asking turns Sam into a brick wall.

 

Sam hates Dean coddling him around Christmas. Any other time, Sam loves it, but once ‘tis the season, he’s a stubborn ox with a bitchy mouth.

 

Dean kinda loves it.

 

Shut up.

 

Dean has to be strategic about it, see.

 

If Sam thinks Dean is not finding a hunt so he can take care of Sam for a week, Sam will find one himself and guilt the motherloving crap out of Dean for wasting any time and letting the body count get higher. 

 

They always go, but the stupid sonofabitch is useless almost immediately, hurting himself and endangering others, so Dean has to finish the hunt alone, which means while Sam gets better, Sam is also sulky and guilt ridden, which, hey, what a winning combo.

 

So Dean has wised up.

 

Now, he sends them toward distant hunts, and prays to god that at some motel along the way, Sam will drop, and his temperature will rise quickly enough that he doesn’t protest when Dean goes to pay for some extra nights. 

 

He has Bobby call them with an urgent case 1,300 miles away. He distracts Sam with vague tidbits of information, Sam reading through books and articles looking for possible creatures and connections where there aren’t any.

 

He gives Sam sugar and lots of smiles, so Sam turns into an energetic dork and rambles around random shit. He encourages Sam’s rambles, going “uh huh,” and “oh?” and asking questions, and it usually works for about an hour.

 

Sam is always on his fucking ass, though, since they both very clearly remember what day it is.

 

This time, Sam badgers him to drive faster, squints at him suspiciously in random intervals, and is a bigger brat than usual. Dean does his best to defend from such attacks, but Sam tires him down enough that they’re both snappy by the time the sun sets.

 

Sam’s simmering in the passenger seat all the way through dinner, getting back on the road, pissing at a rest stop, and finally finding a motel for the night somewhere in the flat plains of Kansas or Missouri. 

 

Dean knows Sam, though, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before Sam boils.

 

And, like clockwork--

 

“I just think it’s stupid,” Sam bursts out, storming out of the bathroom with wet curled hair nad a towel around his waist, so Dean keeps his eyes lowered and watches the steam billow across the room. “It must be a bug or something, it’s not like it happens every Chr--”

 

“It does,” Dean interrupts. “Every year, kid. Same time. Maybe your immune system is linked to your ovarian cycle, Sam, I don’t know.”

 

“Real cute,” Sam drawls. “Just, stop fucking forcing me into the kennel, alright? I don’t need the vet.”

 

Dean blinks while Sam dresses. “Are you calling yourself a bitch?”

 

Sam’s head snaps up and he glares daggers at Dean while stepping into his boxers. Wet happy trail, a split second, Dean wasn’t looking, Sam didn’t notice. 

 

“Also,” Dean continues, “you’re the only person I know who resents help.”

 

“Like you’re doing it out of the kindness of your heart.”

 

“I am!” Dean laughs. “Sammy, give me some goddamn credit.”

 

Sam has no answer to that, which is basically admitting Dean’s right, and Sam just pouts through the evening. He doesn’t even bother looking at the case files, half certain they’re fake (they are, a little--they’re old) and just ruminates on his laptop before going to bed.

 

By the time Sam’s alarm goes off in the morning, Dean already knows Sam’s sick.

 

Sam hits the alarm before it finishes the first beep, yet Dean wakes up to it blaring.

 

He groans and rolls over--they push the beds closer together so they can both reach the nightstand, or at least that’s why they say why--and shuts off the alarm. Sam is huddled up in a mass of blankets and limbs in the other bed, only his forehead, nose, and left arm visible, and his nose is definitely red.

 

So it begins.

 

***

 

Sam’s bleary eyed through breakfast, slow as hell and shivery. It hits him hard, Dean sometimes forgets, and his heart pulls in sympathy. He gets honey for Sam’s coffee and has Sam drink water throughout the day. 

 

In the passenger seat, Sam lists, leaning against the door and staring blankly out the window. Dean glances at him while he drives. “How you feelin’?”

 

“Mmmurgh,” Sam responds, and Dean chuckles. 

 

He reaches over blindly to feel for Sam’s temperature. Youch. Kid’s hot. “That bad?”

 

Sam’s quiet, but it’s an affirmative kind of quiet (yes, there’s a difference), so Dean sighs. “We’ll get some soup in ya, turn the heater on,” he says. “Get you ship shape in no time.”

 

Sam doesn’t respond, again, but this time, it’s a “fuck you” kind of quiet.

 

Dean smiles as he parks the car.

 

By lunch, Sam is a thousand times worse.

 

His forehead is shiny, eyes glassy, face red, hair limp, whatever the hell descriptions you can think up for a really fucking sick kid. If Dean’s memory is correct, he doesn’t usually enter the “wet towel” phase until day two, so it’s a particularly bad one. 

 

He brings Sam home, forcing Sam to stay in bed while he grabs some soup and hot cocoa from Panera (Sam likes it, okay). 

 

While Sam slowly eats, spoon trembling, unfocused eyes looking in the general direction of the T.V. playing a VHS of  _ Star Trek: First Contact _ that Dean keeps on hand precisely for this situation, Dean steps out to give Bobby a call.

 

Bobby picks up on the first ring. “Sam out?” he asks.

 

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “We’re gonna be off the map through Christmas.”

 

“Figures,” Bobby says. “You kids close enough to Sioux Falls?”

 

“That’s real nice Bobby, but I’m not sure I should be puttin’ him on the road for long.”

 

“Well, where are ya?”

 

“Uh.” Dean tries to remember the latest road sign or local shop name. “Overland Park.”

 

“Kansas?”

 

“Is there any other?”

 

“Hell if I know. Anyway, that’s good luck. I got a cabin not far from there.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows prepare for liftoff. “Holy shit, really?”

 

“Yeah. I’ll text you idjits the address.”

 

“Thanks, Bobby,” Dean says, and hangs up. A moment later, his phone chirps, and he smiles down at the text.

 

He pries the empty soup container from Sam’s lap, Sam looking at him in confusion. He’s not even touching Sam but he can feel how hot he is.

 

Dean cleans up the room while Sam fazes in and out of existence. When he’s done, he grabs blankets from the trunk and sets up a makeshift little bed in the backseat.

 

Now, the fun part.

 

Dean shakes Sam by the hot, boney shoulder. Sam blinks up at him. 

 

“Gotta jet,” Dean says. “Can you stand?”

 

“Mnnhmhm,” Sam says, which translates from Sick Sam to Normal Sam as “not a kid.”

 

Sam gets up. 

 

He’s vertical, but wobbly. Dean gets an arm around him and practically drags him to the car. 

 

He pushes Sam down into the backseat when Sam’s autopilot jerks them toward the passenger seat. Sam sits up, so Dean pushes him onto his back, then draws several blankets over him and tucks him in to trap him.

 

Sam stays, thankfully. It’s a bitch of a drive when he doesn’t.

 

Dean hops in the car and gets them the hell over to Dodge.

 

Bobby’s cabin is easy to find, thankfully. The drive has been cleared recently, so a hunter has probably been through. Hopefully there’s food left and not a corpse.

 

The Impala clunks up the driveway, and Dean parks it in a shed next to the cabin. The cabin is cute, just a one room thing in decent shape. It’s a little before sunset, the temperature dropping fast. Dean’s breath comes out in front of him in puffs. 

 

He gets a swaddled Sam out of the backseat and leads him into the cabin.

 

At first, things are good. The cabin’s warm. No corpses. No bloodstains. Only a queen bed, kitchen, and living room with a bigass stone fireplace. A dormered ceiling. Picturesque.

 

Sam sneezes.

 

Then Sam coughs.

 

Yeah. 

 

It’s dusty as hell, and Sam is a sick asthmatic kid. 

 

Sam coughs again. 

 

Dean mutters about their luck under his breath, reaching into his pocket for Sam’s inhaler.

 

Other pocket.

 

Did he leave it in the car?

 

He widens his eyes. No. Fuck. He kept meaning to go to the pharmacy, but he never fucking did. 

 

Shit.

 

“Sammy,” Dean calls, and Sam turns toward him and sneezes. Dean sighs and leads Sam onto the couch, gets the fire started. He uses a broom to swipe down cobwebs and opens the window to let the dust out. Sam is wracking coughs while he does, but once he’s done, Sam quiets, just a little. He’s pale.

 

“Sorry, kiddo,” Dean says. He closes the windows, gives Sam another blanket, and stokes the now roaring fire. He grabs Sam’s laptop and loads some DVD--he doesn’t even look--to distract Sam. He makes Sam drink some more water.

 

Sam’s completely nonverbal at this point, which is another not so good sign. It means the fever’s really kicking in. Dean feels Sam’s forehead and winces. Yeah.

 

Dean sits next to Sam, brushing Sam’s hair with his fingers. He puts his thumb on Sam’s chin and steers Sam’s head so Sam will look him in the eyes. “Sam,” he says, firm enough that even a feverish Sam will pay attention, “I gotta go get you some stuff, okay? I’m gonna be gone for about an hour. Think you can manage?”

 

Sam can’t hide his feelings when he’s sick, so the chin-wobble makes Dean feel like shit, but Sam nods. He gives Dean a tiny, lopsided smile before turning slowly back toward the computer. Oh, it’s the second Harry Potter movie. Not bad.

 

Dean ruffles Sam’s hair and goes.

 

He pushes the speed limit and skids across ice all the way to the nearest town.

 

The pharmacy is not easy, but hey, whatever. They’re already wanted. It doesn’t matter if the CCTV gets a glimpse of his face. 

 

He walks out with some legally purchased batteries for a flashlight (just in case), flu medicine, and a kid’s inhaler from the pharmacy while the pharmacist was distracted.

 

He stops at a grocery store to get them some other basic supplies, but the longer he stays, the antsier he gets. The checkout lines are moving way too damn slowly. By the time he loads up gallons of water and bread and soup cans, he’s downright anxious.

 

He’s almost home, passing every car on the damn road, when familiar red and blue lights light up in his rearview mirror.

 

Dean hangs his head, punching the steering wheel and cursing. They do not need this right now.

 

He pulls onto the shoulder and waits for the cop to approach the window.

 

He rolls down the window when she does and hands her his license and registration. She scans it for a moment. “Mr. Puvotti?”

 

“That’s me.” Dean offers her his cheesiest grin.

 

“Are you aware you were going 70 in a 40 zone?”

 

Dean winces. Okay, that’s really bad. “Aw, officer, that’s my bad,” he says.

 

She laughs. “Yeah, it sure is, pal.”

 

“Hey, listen,” he says, meeting her eyes. “Uh… Diana… you got any siblings?”

 

“What are you trying right now, Gerald?”

 

“‘Cuz I do,” Dean hurries on. “I got a little brother. Real lanky sonofabitch. Excuse the language. And, uh, he’s home right now, having an asthma attack, and I--”

 

“Why the hell didn’t you lead with that?” she demands. “Where are y’all at?”

 

He gives the address. She tilts her head. “Singer’s cabin?”

 

Shit. “Uh, yeah, he’s an uncle,” he clocks the look on her face, “uh, distant, distant uncle--”

 

She rolls her eyes. “I’m giving you a warning, but I’m gonna watch you drive off, and you’re not gonna do 70,” she says. “Don’t let me see this ‘67 again, you hear?”

 

Dean is just a little bit in love with her. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

He goes, 60 instead of 70.

 

By the time he’s back at the cabin, it’s been a million fucking years.

 

Parking in the shed is a bitch so he leaves Baby out front and pole vaults in through the front door. 

 

The first things he hears are Sam’s gasps.

 

Sam’s hunched over like he belongs in a Disney movie with creepy gargoyles, wheezing and rasping like he smokes 40 packs a day.

 

Dean’s over to him in an instant, gently pushing Sam upright and rubbing his back. The movie’s over, and Sam’s staring at the blank screen still without blinking, which, okay, creepy.

 

“Hey, Sammy, kiddo, hey,” Dean soothes, and Sam blinks, taking in a shallow, crackly breath. The fire’s gone low, so Dean adds more logs, stokes it, gets it roaring, then goes right back to Sam’s side. He listens to Sam’s chest. Fuck. It’s really bad.

 

He waves Sam’s inhaler in front of Sam’s eyes. Sam tracks it with a little bit of lag. “Remember this?” Dean asks. “Know how to use it?”

 

Sam nods, reaching out a hand with the speed and grace of a sloth. Dean presses the inhaler into Sam’s hands and curls Sam’s fingers around it. Sam holds it up, takes a breath, and uses the inhaler flawlessly, thank god. The noise it makes lowers Dean’s blood pressure.

 

It’s not long before Sam looks a little more alive, so Dean starts on dinner. He boils water on the stove and turns to grab some soup ingredients. 

 

He almost jumps out of his skin when he sees Sam sitting at the kitchen table, quiet bastard. How can you be so small and so large at the same time? 

 

Sam looks up at him. “Cold,” he rasps.

 

“I know, buddy,” Dean says. “But you got a fever, okay? I’ll get you some food in a second, sound good?”

 

Sam coughs. “Hurts,” he says.

 

Dean’s heart pulls. It’s hard to consider that just yesterday he wanted to throttle Sam. 

 

Dean makes vegetable soup for the two of them, and some tea with honey for Sam. He rubs Sam’s back while Sam eats. Sam only gets about half down before he pushes it away with a single finger, looking a little green around the gills. Dean saves the rest for later and herds Sam to bed.

 

Sam’s wheezy again, not bad enough to need the nebulizer, but not ideal. Sam swallows down a cocktail of meds before getting into bed. Dean makes him down two or three glasses of water. 

 

Sam’s sweaty and stinky and gross, but he’s shivering hard, now, and his lungs don’t sound so great, so Dean just helps get him down to a t-shirt and boxers and gets him into the passenger side of the bed.

 

Dean does his own nightly routine, locking up, salting everything, making sure anything Sam could possibly need is in arm’s reach in case of an emergency. 

 

He climbs in after Sam, pushing down any fucking barriers they might have and wrapping Sam in his arms. Pressure against Sam’s back helps Sam breathe, and keeping warm does, too, and Sam sleeps easier when Dean’s around, okay, and god, there’s just about a million medical reasons why Dean’s doing it, but number one is his own selfish desires, pressing his nose into Sam’s hair and falling right the fuck asleep.

 

***

 

Sam’s worse.

 

Dean wakes up to find he’s been cuddling a radiator all night. They’re both caked in sweat. Sam is barely getting any air in or out, only taking a few rattling breaths a minute. 

 

Dean swears. It’s colder in here. The goddamn fire. 

 

It takes too long to restart it, Sam gasping for goddamn air the entire time, but the moment the flames are licking logs, Dean hops back to the bed, propping Sam upright and feeling his forehead. Oh, fuck. 

 

Sam’s breathing open-mouthed now, his eyes barely tracking Dean’s moments, and the kid’s red, he’s just red.

 

Dean feeds him some water, meds, and soup, but it comes back up almost immediately. Dean moves Sam to the couch with a bucket. Sam dry heaves and his throat sounds like sandpaper. Dean thanks the lord above the cabin has a fucking washing machine, though how long the comforter’s gonna take to dry in front of the fire is anyone’s business.

 

Sam goes from red to pale, which is when all of Dean’s alarm bells go off. Well, even more alarm bells go off, joining the preexisting ringing alarm bells. He sets up the nebulizer, getting the mouthpiece in place. Sam holds onto it, rote instinct. 

 

Dean paces the room. He’d open a window to fan out the puke smell but Sam might get worse. Should he call Bobby? Get more supplies? Get what? 

 

It’s then Dean realizes how quiet it is.

 

He’d been so focused on Sam he hadn’t realized how silent the world was.

 

He opens the door.

 

It takes some effort.

 

About a foot or so fell during the night, caking the dirt driveway and window sills. The Impala is buried, and her engine always stalls when it gets cold. The driveway is long, and Dean knows it’d take him all day to shovel it, and he has Sam to watch out for.

 

They’re so screwed. 

 

Dean closes the door and stokes the fire. Sam coughs, then manages, “Dean?”

 

Dean’s by his side in no time. “Yeah, Sammy?”

 

Sam’s nose wrinkles up before he sneezes again. “Where’re we?”

 

This is a good sign. “Bobby’s cabin,” he says. “Been here for about a day. You’ve got the mega flu or something.”

 

Sam nods. “S’it Christmas?”

 

Dean laughs. “Almost.”

 

“I need a shower.”

 

Dean laughs again, chest lighter by the minute. “Yeah, you really do.”

 

Sam sighs, grabbing the blankets from the couch and drawing them up over his shoulders. He shivers. “Dad’s not gonna be home, then,” he says, and he really shouldn’t be talking this much.

 

Not when he says shit like that.

 

“No,” Dean says, barely able to inject his usual amount of cheer. “Dad’s not coming.”

 

Sam leaves it at that, and Dean gets the med kit out to check Sam’s fever, which is hovering around a dangerous 103. He gets more fluids in Sam, and they stay down this time, thank god.

 

While Sam fiddles with the nebulizer and wheezes, Dean checks the cabin’s emergency supplies. He saw a snow plow in the shed before, but it’s a little lawnmower sized one, not nearly powerful enough to get them out of here should the weather turn worse, which it’s looking likely it will.

 

They have enough food to last a few days. But if Sam gets worse, or the snow gets worse, they’re gonna be in a pickle.

 

Dean calls Bobby. Once Bobby picks up, he says, “do you know what the weather is like in Dodge?”

 

Bobby makes a gruff sound. “Can’t be good,” he says.

 

“Uncharacteristically cold,” Dean says, mocking some faceless weather reporter he conjured up. “We’re snowed in.”

 

Bobby swears.

 

“How soon can you get to us?” Dean asks.

 

“It’s not much better up here…” Bobby trails off. “I’d have to use the plow.”

 

“How soon?” Dean presses.

 

Bobby sighs. “Two, three days max,” he says.

 

Dean lets out a breath. “Okay,” he says. “I think I can keep Sam alive for two days.”

 

“How’s the kid?”

 

Dean looks over at Sam, who is shivering again. “Not good,” Dean murmurs.

 

“Do you have the--”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says. “And the neb.”

 

“Shit. That bad?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You boys hold tight,” Bobby says. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just hold tight.”

 

***

 

Holding tight is pretty much all they can do.

 

Dean wishes he could be bored, could sit by Sam’s bedside holding Sam’s sweaty hand or some shit, but when Sam gets delirious, he gets weird. Right now, he’s waltzing around the cabin with every blanket they own draped over his shoulders, pausing to get momentarily mesmerized by the way the snow falls outside before getting back to it.

 

It’s not an actual waltz, but Sam’s movements are lurchy and drifty enough to keep Dean on edge, following after Sam like a shadow dancer. They have enough on their plate as it is, not counting a potential concussion. 

 

Sam’s breathing is shit, but it seems a little better. Kid’s still hot, fever hasn’t broken.

 

Oh yeah, and he’s fucking delirious.

 

“Deeeeaaan,” Sam says. “The baby’s up in the rafters again. Burning.” Sam snorts and laughs.

 

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. He grabs Sam by the arm and tries to push him down onto the bed, but Sam’s made of fucking helium or something, he just goes back up. Eyes glued to the ceiling, he mumbles about girls and moms and babies and fires and carnivals and clowns and has this horrible, empty sounding congested laugh, stuff from Dean’s nightmares, really.

 

Dean won’t stop talking, either.

 

“Sammy,” he says the most. “Sammy, sit down. Sammy, stop that. Sammy, no one’s there. Sammy, you’re okay. There’s no fire. You have a fever, Sammy, that’s why you’re hot.”

 

Sam pauses to listen to him but never seems to digest anything he says. The only comfort from that is that Dean remembers this from prior Really Bad flus.

 

A new thought stops Dean in his tracks. Dean was never with Sam around Christmas while Sam was at school. Did Sam get sick every time then, too? He would’ve brought it up as a counter argument if he hadn’t. Did he spend any Christmases alone? Was Jess there?

 

What things did Sam say around Jess?

 

Well, whatever happened, Jess stuck around, so Dean has to give her props for that. She kept Sammy alive, so Dean has that affection for her. It’s weird to miss someone you never really met beyond a few words ‘cause your dad was missing, but he does.

 

And Sam obviously still does, too, if his weirdly post-surgical sounding delirium rants and nightmares are anything to go by.

 

Dean is trying to take Sam’s temperature when Sam gasps and makes a choked-off noise, staring up at Dean with these huge, dark eyes that make him look twelve years old. “Get away from me,” he whispers, hoarse. “You have to get away from me.”

 

Dean swallows past a lump in his throat. “Sammy, it’s just me,” he tries to say. “It’s your big brother, Dean, okay?”

 

“Dean,” Sam says, and Dean nods, “get away from me. You don’t want me. Used goods.”

 

Well, Sam’s barely spoken and Dean’s already had enough of that shit. “Shut up,” he says. “Lemme take your temperature.”

 

In a move that is far too fast for someone in Sam’s condition, Sam slaps the thermometer out of Dean’s hand and it goes skidding across the hardwood floor. “I’m a monster,” Sam chokes out, his voice ugly and distorted, on the verge of tears. “You shouldn’t love me.”

 

Dean has nothing to say to that. He stares at Sam, and Sam stares back. Dean gets up to grab the thermometer, and when he turns back around, Sam’s gone.

 

Where a sasquatch could possibly go in a fucking five hundred square foot cube is beyond Dean. 

 

He hears the shower turn on.

 

Dean shakes his head and pushes into the closet-sized bathroom. Sam’s clothed, huddled in the tub, knees drawn up to his chest, freezing cold water pouring down onto him. 

 

“Jesus, Sammy!” Dean snaps. He turns of the water and Sam reaches out to turn it back on. Dean bats him away. Sam’s freezing cold fingers curl around Dean’s wrist and yank him downward, putting Dean off balance. Dean falls forward into the tub, just barely saving himself from braining himself on the edge.

 

Sam’s crying now, sobbing, really, these stuttered, gaspy things that Dean hasn’t heard since Sam was eleven or twelve. His popsicle phalanges dance over Dean’s face, his cheekbones, his nose, his eyes, and Sam cries even louder. “I’m sorry,” Sam says, sounding so genuine and miserable that Dean’s tearing up a little in sympathy, it’s automatic, shut up.

 

“I’m really sorry,” Sam croaks, blinking at Dean, hands curling into paws at Dean’s shoulders. “I tried not to be like this.”

 

“It’s okay,” Dean rasps. “You’re okay, Sammy. You--”

 

Dean gets cut off by Sam pulling him forward, and Dean is confused as fuck as to what Sam’s mission is until Sam’s uncoordinated lips make a sort of sloppy lick-kiss against the spot where Dean’s left nostril meets his face, and then he gets it.

 

Dean pushes Sam back and stands. Sam had also tried that the Christmas before Stanford. Dean didn’t know then, but Sam had already gotten his acceptance letter, early action. 

 

He’d thought Sam didn’t have these feelings anymore.

 

Sam’s still crying. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t control it.”

 

“Yes you can, you’re just bein’ sick and weird,” Dean says, trying not think about how it would have felt if Sam had a little bit more coordination. “Get up.”

 

Sam is wracked with shivers now, hair wet and black and pasted against his skull, and he blinks up at Dean in surprise. Dean leans down to feel his forehead and finds his fever has broken. “Get up,” Dean repeats.

 

Sam stands and the blood leaves his head, and Dean catches him before Sam stumbles. He helps Sam out of the shower, out of his clothes, and into new, warm clothes. He herds a fully clothed Sam back out into the main room, and pushes him down into bed. Doesn’t matter what time it is. 

 

“Get some sleep,” Dean orders, and Sam is so puzzled and concerned that he silently obliges. Dean tucks him in before stoking the fire and sitting on the couch, staring into the flames, lost in thought.

 

If Sam gets drunk, sloppy drunk, wasted, he’s either a maudlin sad sack or extremely handsy and giggly.

 

Dean thought that was just how Sam was, but now Dean’s thinking maybe Sam has feelings for him, too.

 

He just… Dean runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t know how to really say it exactly, but that’s what it is. Sam gives him these fucking soft looks and Sam tears himself apart with guilt and Sam wants to kiss him. 

 

Sam loves him and Sam hates himself for it.

 

Dean should want to reciprocate. Or, hell, he should want Sam to be normal. He doesn’t really know what he wants.

 

He doesn’t want Sam to hate himself.

 

That’s his biggest takeaway, really.

 

Sam has always loved him. It’s obvious in hindsight. Dean wonders if he’s as obvious.

 

But Dean didn’t know Sam considered himself a monster for it. 

 

He knew Sam considered himself a monster. He chalked that up to the weird visions and random other psychic powers. But--

 

Oh, shit. 

 

Sam thinks he’s going darkside. 

 

Does Sam think the two things are related? The feelings and the going darkside? Does he see his feelings as a sign, as evidence, as a cancerous growth inside him?

 

The more questions Dean asks, the more he knows the answer, and he is having absolutely none of that.

 

Their unspoken rule is to never bring this shit up. 

 

This time, Dean’s going to break the silence.

 

He’s not going to let this shit stand. Not after all the little epiphanies he’s had today. 

 

Dean looks out the window, foot tapping restlessly. There’s a countdown to when Bobby gets here. When they re-enter the normal-ish world, that’s when the time runs out, when the things that happened here cannot be spoken of. 

 

Dean has until then to do something.

 

Two days, give or take.

 

And Sam’s still sick as fuck, though hopefully not as muddled up and delirious.

 

Dean nibbles at his nailbeds. Man. He’d made the decision himself, he’d promised to break the silence, but at the same time, Dean hates talking about emotions. He hates it. It feels like pulling teeth and there’s no upside.

 

But Sam needs this. Sam needs to heal.

 

That, really, is what makes the decision easy.

 

Dean can work with two days.

 

***

 

Sam wakes up around dinner. He makes it to the table okay and even keeps down a whole bowl of soup. He’s quiet, both verbally and breathing-wise, which Dean decides to take as a good sign. 

 

When they’re done, Dean peeks outside to find more snow fallen, the Impala all but a little square of windows peeking out from the drifts. 

 

They run out of logs, but Dean is fine with swimming through snow to get some from the shed. While he’s out, he tries to clear snow away from Baby and start the car, but it’s not much use, at least right now. He clears the Impala anyway, and a little path from the shed to the cabin, and by the time he finishes that, he’s soaked, freezing cold, and exhausted.

 

He takes his frozen pants off at the door and flops onto the couch, putting some wood on the fire. It’s not as good as the dry stock that was in here, but if it lights up, it lights up.

 

Sam comes and joins him after a moment. Dean allows Sam into his space, curling an arm around his shoulders and feeling his forehead. Still hot, sweaty, and gross, but not as hot, sweaty, or gross as before.

 

They both really need a shower.

 

Dean had planned on playing another movie or something, but the longer he sits there, the more necessary it becomes. They both smell.

 

“Alright, Sammy,” Dean breathes out, standing up, knees cracking, “shower time.”

 

Sam sneezes. “Do we hab to?” he asks.

 

Dean grins at his pitiful baby brother. “Oh, we have to,” he says, and watches Sam’s shoulders sag.

 

They shuffle into the bathroom. Even without all the stripping and scrubbing that’s about to happen, it’s pretty intimate. It makes the smelliness all the more apparent, so Dean can’t hang onto any weird thoughts or guilt. They’ve been in this exact situation loads of times before so it isn’t even weird.

 

Dean turns on the shower and knows they’ve got limited hot water supply, so Sam is top priority. It takes the shower ages to turn hot, and the moment it does, Dean is helping Sam out of his clothes and pushing him under the spray.

 

Sam looks uncomfortable at first, but he takes a Good Deep Breath and relaxes, turning his back to the water and sighing. Good. Anything that’s good for Sam’s lungs makes Dean happy as pie. Sam turns away from him and Dean averts his eyes.

 

Sam is able to shampoo his head, but he gets worn down after that, so Dean helps him sit and scrubs his body, even getting under his nails n’ shit. It’s therapeutic, at least for Dean. Sam doesn’t say much the whole time, but he sneaks a lot of looks at Dean.

 

Dean keeps his face open and neutral and kind. He knows why Sam’s looking at him and he doesn’t want to feed into Sam’s fears or wear some expression that Sam would construe into Dean’s Eternal Damnation of Sam.

 

When Sam’s done, the water’s already getting cold, so Dean throws his clothes off and takes a military shower. When he rinses, the water’s gone cold, and he swears, turning off the water and uselessly trying to rub warmth back into his body with a thin towel.

 

Sam’s sitting on the toilet seat in a towel watching him.

 

It’s not like… Sam’s not being a perv, but he’s also not being his usual self, or discrete, or whatever. Dean lets him watch. It’s never really felt weird to have Sam’s eyes on him, doesn’t bother him, even though he knows it should.

 

They both get dressed. By the time they’re out of the bathroom and the fire’s roaring again, Sam is half asleep.

 

Dean has him down some more medication and water before plopping them both down on the couch and powering up another movie. It’s whatever Sam kept in his backpack, so they end up watching Ella Enchanted, which Dean tries to bitch about, but it’s actually really good.

 

It captures Dean enough that he doesn’t notice Sam drifting. He only realizes Sam has fallen asleep when his shoulder warms with drool. 

 

Dean smiles, rubbing Sam’s back. He watches the movie through with Sam sleeping against him. Once it’s over, he guides Sam down to his lap, kicks his leg up on the coffee table, and passes the fuck out.

 

***

 

They sleep through the night there, which is not a good choice for either of them, really.

 

Dean’s got a massive kink in his neck and his knees are killing him. He’s not even thirty and he feels like a geriatric. Sam doesn’t sound any better, wheezy enough that the inhaler becomes necessary. The first sound Sam makes when he wakes is a cough; the second is a breath and the click-shift of the inhaler.

 

Sam’s fever is gone, but Sam’s still lethargic and weak, but Dean’s bettin’ on things staying down, now, and the comforter is dry, so he fills Sam with soup and tea and any other little snacks that they have in the fridge (which is, just toast, actually) and then shuttles him over to the bed and wraps the comforter around Sam’s shoulders. 

 

Dean’s not the toastiest bitch either, so he joins Sam, the two of them under the comforter like they’re co-kings sharing a cloak. Sam isn’t shivering, which is good. And hey, neither of them smell too bad.

 

Dean’s trying to not so obviously gauge Sam’s mental state. If Sam’s still oogly-googly in there at all, now is probably not the best time to bring up serious business. But if Dean waits too long, nothing will happen. He gets the feeling that Sam isn’t gonna want to talk about it this time.

 

Because it’s so much worse, Dean thinks with a sigh, because Sammy is in a bad way and Dean didn’t even notice. Dean didn’t even notice ‘til this trip the way Sam’s ribs poked out of his chest, the hunch he’s developed, how he stays curled into himself and withdrawn. And, yeah, he’s sick, so he’s doing shit like that, but Dean looks back and sees it in his memories. He sees Sam accepting a white mocha from Dean but never touching it, eating like, a single goddamn leaf from a salad.

 

Shit’s fucked.

 

The longer Dean ruminates on it the oilier his stomach feels, the more his hands clench and unclench, his whole body fluttering in that anxiety wave he thought he’d gotten over in grade school.

 

Fuck, Sammy.

 

He sighs and listens to Sam breathe. It’s kinda fucked up, but Sam’s asthmatic breaths are kind of comforting. It’s at least an auditory confirmation that Sam’s alive, and sometimes, that’s all Dean needs to keep breathing himself.

 

Sam shudders and pulls the comforter closer. Dean leans against him. Sam sniffles. Dean closes his eyes. Man. If only shit weren’t so hard. If only everything were okay all the time.

 

Sam coughs, but it’s not a “my lungs suck” cough, it’s an “awkward at socializing” cough. “Hey…” Sam trails off and swallows. “Are you okay?”

 

Dean wants to laugh. Sam’s asking if he’s okay. Sam is. 

 

Sam is one of a kind, that’s for sure.

 

“Dean?” Sam sounds unsure now, a little quieter, and Dean can already hear the blame leaking into Sam’s head, so he sits up, stretching and meeting Sam’s eyes with a tired smile.

 

“I should be the one askin’ you that,” Dean says, going back to rubbing Sam’s back. “How you feelin’?”

 

Sam’s quiet for a bit. “I’m okay,” he eventually says, soft, almost a whisper.

 

That’s Dean’s opening. He just needs the courage to speak up. Fuck.

 

All it takes is one look at Sam’s watery eyes. Dean shifts to face Sam. “Listen, Sammy…” This was so much easier in his head. What the hell does even say? Where does he start? Fuck it. Just fuck it. “I’m worried about you.”

 

Sam doesn’t fake a smile. His face doesn’t even move. “I’m feeling better,” he says, the word “better” split into a mostly normal “bet” and a coughed out “hurg” noise. “I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

 

Yeah, sure. “It’s not just that,” Dean tries. “I.” None of the words feel right on his tongue. He’s supposed to be SuperBrother, always knowing just what to say to help Sam. He’s not supposed to be a gigantic idiot. “Are you… you know,  _ okay _ ?”

 

Wow. Coherent. Still, Sam reads him. There’s the wobbly fake smile, the bastard. Sam nods. “I will be.”

 

And maybe that’s honest, but it doesn’t satisfy Dean. Dean scooches closer. “I know we don’t usually talk about when you get sick,” Dean says, “but we got a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

 

Sam is somehow able to sniffle and sneeze and keep his face completely neutral. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Dean sighs. It’s now or never. “Look, Sammy, come on,” he says, his voice a little reedy, ‘cause, fuck, what a limb to go out on, “I know how you feel. And you gotta stop tearin’ yourself up inside about it.”

 

Sam’s face shifts to stony. “Stop,” he says.

 

Dean doesn’t blink. “No.”

 

That seems to shake Sam a little. Dean takes advantage of the opening. “I know about it,” Dean says. “I have for a while. I thought maybe because of Jess, you didn’t anymore… but I was wrong. Do you see me looking at you with disgust? Kickin’ you out? Hating you for it?”

 

Sam laughs. It’s ugly. “No,” he says, “and I have no fucking clue why not.”

 

“Sammy,” Dean sighs. “I could never hate you for anything.” He bulldozes ahead when Sam’s eyes get shiny. “Look, I know you struggle with… a lot. Fuck, I do, okay? You’ve got a shitload on your plate, kiddo. But the worst thing you could do is blame yourself. You’re not evil. You’re not messed up. You’re just Sam.”

 

“‘Just Sam,’” Sam repeats with a bad taste in his mouth.

 

Dean is sick of not getting through to the kid. He grabs Sam by the shoulders and that shuts him up quick. “‘Just Sam’ is the greatest goddamn thing this planet has to offer,” he growls. “I don’t know how to tell you, Sam. I just don’t know how. But you need to stop killing yourself over this.”

 

“Or what?” Sam asks, dry. “It’s gonna kill me?”

 

Dean wants to punch him. 

 

Dean takes Sam’s face in his hands instead. 

 

“Don’t you even joke,” he says in a shaky whisper. “Don’t you dare joke about that. You understand? You think you’re all alone in this… that’s crap.”

 

Sam’s eyes go wide, and he seems to see something in Dean then, something real, because he gets a little paler and he nods. Dean lets go, lets out a breath. He looks at the ground. He rolls his shoulders and steels himself, looks back to Sam. Points at him with enough gusto that Sam flinches a little. “You,” he says. “Are going to get meat back on your bones. Are gonna see your pretty face in the mirror and smile. You’re gonna keep going. Okay?”

 

Sam’s fighting over something, something from deep within. After almost saying about a thousand things, he melts a little. 

 

“Okay,” he says.

 

Dean doesn’t really believe him, but a knot of tension escapes his back all the same. “Okay,” Dean echoes, resolute. “Step one. Baby steps, you know?”

 

Sam nods. He narrows his eyes at Dean. “So you--” he catches himself.

 

“So I what?”

 

Sam ducks his head. “Nothin’, it’s stupid.”

 

“So I what?”

 

Sam looks up at Dean. “You don’t think I’m a monster?”

 

Sam’s a child, then, a little child who’s had a nightmare and thinks they’re the thing under the bed, a little boy who thinks Dad is gonna come for him. “No,” Dean says, and he fucking means it, and he makes sure Sam knows he means it. “I never have, and I never, ever will.”

 

Sam coughs. “Do you feel the same?”

 

And this is what makes Dean feel like a little bitch. He sighs, combing Sam’s hair with his fingers. It takes him a long time to speak. When he does, he settles on, “we can’t do anything about it, Sammy, you know that.”

 

Sam nods, a little more color to his cheeks. “I--” The color darkens to a blush. “Uh. Yeah. I guess I knew that.” Sam rubs his nose. “I know I haven’t been that fun recently…”

 

“Recently?”

 

“So thank you for looking after me,” Sam glares. “Seriously. Thank you.”

 

“Shaddup,” Dean grins, happy as all getup to melt back into his usual jerkface older brother persona. “S’my job.”

 

Sam gives him a weird look, but it’s a little brother weird look, so it’s awesome. “Yeah. Sure.”

 

Dean elbows him before getting up and clapping his hands. “You think you can stomach more soup?”

 

***

 

Dean goes outside on the pretext of getting more firewood before calling Bobby. Bobby’s already on his way, so he acts like Dean’s request irritates him, but Dean knows it’s all for show. Bobby’s a family man himself and definitely already had a few ideas on how to help Dean with his idea by the time they hung up.

 

Back inside, arms loaded up with logs, Sam is none the wiser. Dean can’t help a face-splitting grin every time Sam turns his back, ‘cause Sam is feeling better, like actually better, mentally and physically, and he has no idea what’s coming next.

 

They’re packing up, Sam delegated to light tasks that won’t wind him like folding blankets, when Sam speaks up. “You might have to go back on your word, though.”

 

Dean frowns, dumping dirty clothes into a duffel. “On?”

 

“On your promise,” Sam says easily, not even looking at him, grabbing another blanket from the couch to fold. “If I really become a monster. Then you have to admit you were wrong.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes. He can’t even take this seriously. “Even if you decided serial killing sounds fun, I wouldn’t think you’re a monster,” he says, deciding to fight fire with fire. “Sammy loves killing babies? Guess I gotta add ‘cleaning up baby corpses’ to my schedule.”

 

Sam’s genuine horror is almost funny. “Jesus Christ, Dean,” he says. “Doesn’t that prove how biased you are?”

 

Okay, less funny. Dean slams the next batch of clothes in the bag with a little more force. “I might be biased, but I’m not wrong,” he says, pausing to shove as many pairs of dirty boxers as possible into the bulging duffel. “You’re a good person. Sorry if that disappoints.”

 

Sam scoffs. “And this trip was a great reminder why.”

 

“You were sick! With the flu!” Dean snaps. He sobers. “Sammy, please, you can’t keep taking all this out on yourself. Something’s gonna give, man.” Dean’s just grateful Sam hasn’t brought up the other elephant in the room.

 

Sam stares at him without speaking. It’s kind of unnerving. Dean’s about to break the silence with an awkward joke when his phone beeping jarrs both of them. Dean fumbles it out of his pocket and answers it. “Bobby?”

 

Sam watches him while Dean listens to what Bobby says. “Yeah, sure,” Dean replies. “We’ll be ready then.”

 

He and Sam have a nonverbal conversation. Dean dares Sam to bring it back up, but Sam just goes back to work, hefting their blankets under his arms and heading out the door to put them in the Impala. He’s gone before Dean can offer to do it himself, damn the kid. He’s still sick, he shouldn’t be out in the cold.

 

Bobby gets there around seven. It’s already dark. Sam and Dean watch from inside the cold cabin while Bobby’s snowplow unburies them. There’s a cop car flashing behind him, the same officer from before guiding a county plow up and down the road their driveway is on. 

 

It takes a long time, and by the time it’s done, falling snow threatens to erase their progress, so Sam and Dean hop into Baby and hope for the best. Dean turns the key in the ignition and the car sputters and fails to start. He swears, rubbing the dashboard, as if the friction will warm her enough to get the damn thing going. Bobby’s outside, swiping ice from the tire wells and shit, opening the hood and doing whatever he can. 

 

Dean tries several more times with the same result. Sam’s silent in the passenger seat, a little zoned out and tired, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

 

Dean and Bobby end up pushing the Impala into the shed and turning on the lights and the little space heater there, hoping it will resurrect his poor old car. By the time the engine finally turns over, the driveway is covered in a few inches of snow again, and the police officer is getting impatient.

 

Dean puts the car in neutral and he, Sam (who refused to be excluded), and Bobby push it down the drive and onto the main road. 

 

After all that hullabaloo, Dean is tired and sick of everyone’s shit, and the drive to Bobby’s is made in simmering silence.

 

The only thing that keeps him from being an utter baby is the promise of what he and Bobby have cooking up their sleeves.

 

He just has to survive the drive.

 

***

 

They’re about forty miles outside of Sioux Falls when Bobby changes lanes and changes back, which is the sign they agreed on. Dean flashes his lights while Sam’s not looking and Bobby drives on. 

 

Dean takes the next exit. Sam looks up from his daydream. “Drivethrough and piss break,” Dean says. Sam rolls his eyes.

 

Dean’s in the parking lot of a fast food joint chowing down on a burger (and making sure Sam eats all of his damn fries, even if he eats them with ranch, the bastard) when he gets the call he’s been waiting for.

 

“Bobby. Hey,” he says, looking at Sam, who quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah, sorry. I stopped for food.” Sam makes a bitchy face. “Sam agrees with you,” Dean says.

 

Dean listens for a bit while Sam sips daintily on some lemonade. Sam refused soda but Dean wanted any opportunity to get calories in the kid, so lemonade was a compromise. Sam asked for extra ice and waited for it to melt and water it down, so baby steps.

 

“Shit, really?” Dean asks. He mimes the pen and paper thing and Sam grabs it out of the glovebox. Dean rattles off some obscure truck parts and Sam dutifully writes them down. “Where? How close is that?” He has Sam write instructions to a sort of close by auto shop.

 

After he hangs up, Sam wiggles the pad of paper at Dean. “What’s all this stuff for?”

 

“Bobby’s truck is having trouble,” Dean says. “Good thing is, he knows a guy who might be able to help, so we’re going on an errand for him.”

 

Sam’s forehead creases in concern. “Is he pulled over somewhere?”

 

“Yeah, but he’s got a ride, so he’s not screwed,” Dean says. “You up for it?”

 

“Sure,” Sam nods immediately. “Bobby thinks this guy has the right part?”

 

“Well, the trucks a ‘77,” Dean says, lying out of his fucking ass, “so that’s an off year, so the vent is different. It’s a rare piece for a piece of shit truck. This guy specializes in piece of shit.”

 

Sam nods again. “Let’s go.”

 

Dean grins. Sam smiles back, even though he’s still not exactly on the same page.

 

Dean drives off.

 

It takes them half an hour to reach the place, half an hour to talk to the guy, and half an hour for the dude to come back and tell them they don’t have the part. It takes them half an hour to negotiate all the details and fill out an order. And it takes them over half an hour to get back to Bobby’s.

 

Sam was earnest at first, then grumpy, then sleepy. Now, he’s dozing against the passenger side window and Dean is a little concerned. He did not factor Sam’s lethargy into his brilliant plans. 

 

It sort of pays off, though, because then Sam is asleep when Dean buys his gift, and Sam is asleep when Dean parks the car in Bobby’s yard and comes inside to help Bobby, whose truck works just fine, thank you very much, with the finishing touches.

 

They monitor the car like two starving hawks. If Sam shows even the slightest sign of waking, Dean heads out to the porch. There’s about four false alarms before it happens for real, and Sam’s timing is impeccable because Dean’s just about done setting everything up.

 

Dean reaches the Impala just as Sam crawls out. He helps Sam upright, rubbing some warmth into his back. Sam frowns in confusion, coughs, and yawns, blinking up at Bobby’s. 

 

“Hey, sleepy,” Dean greets. “You decided to join the land of the living?”

 

“Hey…” Sam trails off and yawns again. “When did I fall asleep?”

 

“About halfway into the drive,” Dean says, “and you needed shuteye, so I let you rest. We’ve been here for about twenty minutes or so.”

 

“Hmm.” Sam blinks tiredly. His stomach rumbles audibly.

 

Dean laughs. “You hungry?”

 

Sam blinks at him, now suspicious, though Dean doesn’t know what in the fuck gave him away. “A little,” Sam answers, after a beat.

 

“Let’s get some more soup in you,” Dean says, leading Sam by the arm up the front steps. Sam bats him away. “Bobby made chili.”

 

“Not really soup, but okay,” Sam gripes, and Dean opens the door for him.

 

Sam is about to complain about Dean babying him when he actually steps inside the fucking house and looks around.

 

The transformation of emotions playing across Sam’s face is absolutely 100% worth it.

 

The front hall isn’t big, but the steps upstairs are right ahead and covered in garlands with ribbons and lights, which is what Sam’s looking at with his mouth open like that. Dean tries not to stare. Dean gets out of his shoes and Sam instinctively follows suit. 

 

Dean pushes Sam through the house to the kitchen and study, where a Christmas tree is set up, complete with lights, tinsel, and ornaments, and presents under the tree, actual wrapped presents. The kitchen table is covered in foods, including Sam’s favorite mac and cheese, chili, apple pie, corn, potatoes… an actual fucking holiday feast, the kind that Sam used to pine after when he was younger.

 

It isn’t their Christmas, sure. This isn’t really their tradition. But it’s the Christmas Sam always wanted and never got. And, yeah, maybe Sam’s a grinch, now, maybe he gets so sick he almost dies, but you know, Dean has a funny fucking feeling Sam doesn’t actually hate any of this.

 

Bobby’s at the stove making some more chili. “Hey, Sam,” he greets with a smile. “Merry Christmas, kid.”

 

Dean spreads his arms out wide. “Did you forget what day it was? Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

 

Sam blinks at both of them, spinning in a circle and looking all around the house, taking in all the details. There’s paper snowflakes taped to the walls and garlands of old beer cans in the hallway. They did their best, and if Dean says so himself, he thinks it looks pretty damn good.

 

“You did this all for me?” Sam asks.

 

Dean nods like an eager retriever. “Merry Christmas,” he repeats. “Do you like it?”

 

Sam looks around some more. Dean doesn’t know if he’s imagining the glimmer in Sam’s eyes or not. “Well, it sure looks good,” Sam says, which is about the most damn neutral response on the planet.

 

Dean elbows Sam. “Hey,” he says. “Come on. Go open your presents.”

 

“My…?” It’s then Sam actually clocks what’s under the tree. 

 

Dean shoves him a little, and Sam steps forward. He crouches in front of the tree, looking at the little labels. Two presents for him, one for Bobby, one for Dean.

 

“I didn’t get you anything,” Sam says.

 

Dean waves him off. “S’yer day, anyway,” he says. “Seein’ you breathe is my gift.”

 

Sam rolls his eyes, but he softens. He takes his first present and carefully untapes the wrapping paper, keeping it whole, before taking out the box. This is Bobby’s present, so Dean doesn’t even know what’s in it. Sam opens the lid and pulls out a blank prescription note.

 

Bobby’s leaning against the entry to the study. “For yer lungs, if you need it,” Bobby says. “You can fudge the expiration date.”

 

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam smiles. He puts it aside. There’s something else in the box. He pulls out a worn copy of Lord of the Rings and holds it like precious cargo. “I thought I lost this,” he breathes.

 

“Found it in the attic a while back,” Bobby says. “Got a friend to fix it up. The spine stays in now.”

 

“Thank you,” Sam repeats, a little breathier this time, still looking down at the book in worship. He sets it aside.

 

He opens Dean’s present.

 

He stares down at the leather journal and silver ball pen in confusion. He picks them up, handling them, hefting the journal. “These are really nice,” Sam says, “thank you, Dean,” but there’s a question in his voice.

 

“For, you know…” Dean trails off. “You got a lot of thoughts up there, man, you gotta put ‘em somewhere. And, y’know, without Dad, someone’s gotta keep track of all the shit we find out. No one’s better than Mr. Geek Boy.”

 

Sam nods, looking down at the journal with a little more fondness. He won’t read the love letter hastily penned onto the first page until later, but that’s okay. “Thank you, Dean,” he says again, and the look in his eyes says he gets it, he means it.

 

Dean just nods. He opens his present from Bobby to find a socket wrench size missing from his set and a repair kit for the torn vinyl in the backseat. It’s awesome. And Bobby’s present that Dean got him is a bottle of Blue Label, which is always appreciated, and is popped open almost immediately.

 

They all drink. They eat food. Sam finishes his plate and even laughs a couple times. Before they know it, it’s late, and Sam’s drifting again.

 

“Hey.” Dean helps a bleary-eyed Sam stand from the table. “Let’s get you in bed.”

 

“The dishes,” Sam murmurs in protest.

 

“Bobby and I will clean ‘em up,” Dean assures Sam softly, Bobby watching them with fond eyes from across the table. “C’mon. Upstairs.”

 

Sam starts walking, and Dean shoots Bobby a grateful look. Bobby waves him off and starts taking plates to the sink.

 

Upstairs, it’s not hard to get Sam down to a t shirt and boxers and push him into bed.

 

Dean climbs in next to him, wrapping his arms around Sam with a sigh he’d been holding in all day. 

 

***

 

It snows all Boxing Day, so Dean helps Bobby shovel and keep the yard accessible in case anyone nearby has any auto emergencies. He watches smoke puff out of the chimney, jealous of Sammy, who slept past noon, and is probably snacking on leftovers as Dean stands there.

 

Speak of the devil. Sam appears in the doorway. He storms down the porch steps, headed on a collision course for Dean. 

 

The journal’s in his hand.

 

Dean stops shoveling. “Well, hey, Sammy,” he says. “You feeling any--”

 

Sam shokes the journal in his face, opened to the first page. “What is this?” Sam demands.

 

Oh, shit. Dean shrugs. “What does it look like?” he asks.

 

Sam scoffs. “Oh, no,” he growls. “This is not fair. Not after everything.”

 

“What the fuck do you mean?”

 

“This? This Christmas, being nice?” Sam shakes his head. “I don’t need your pity. I’m dealing, okay? And you said we couldn’t. This. This is… I don’t need this.”

 

Dean puts down the shovel. “How is not feeding yourself and hurting yourself and thinking you’re a monster and you’re sick and twisted for loving me and you’re going to become some shitty demon king dealing with your problems? Stop, Sammy, just stop, okay? Stop hating yourself. I wrote you that letter ‘cause I need you to know you aren’t evil. You’re not alone, okay? It’s us. We might be kinda fucked up but we’re not demons. You’re mine. Maybe not in every way, but you are. So shut the fuck up. Shut the fuck up and fucking eat and take care of yourself and accept that you’re a good person who has people who love him.”

 

Dean’s panting. He kicks a lump of slush. “God damn it.”

 

Sam blinks at him. 

 

Then Sam’s on him.

 

Sam buries his face in Dean’s shoulder, and Dean’s arms automatically come up to wrap around Sam. He feels the sobs juddering through Sam’s body before he hears them, and he presses Sam closer, breathing out something that was stuck in his chest this whole time, ever since he woke up with Sam sick, and he presses his nose to the crown of Sam’s hair. He kisses Sam’s forehead. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Hey, c’mon. Sammy. Hey.”

 

Sam hugs him back, and they stand there for a few minutes squeezing the life out of each other while Sam gets all that bullshit out of his system. Hopefully forever.

 

Sam pulls back after a million years. He smiles at Dean in embarrassment and wipes his nose. “I’m sorry,” he hiccups.

 

“Enough of that,” Dean says, soft, and maybe loving Sam and taking care of Sam is his element. Maybe he’ll take it in any form he can get. “You’re fine. You know that right?”

 

Sam nods.

 

“S’okay if it doesn’t happen all at once,” Dean murmurs. “We’ll teach you how to be okay, ‘kay? You’ll believe. You read that letter again, ‘cause I meant it. And use that journal.”

 

Sam nods. He sniffles again. “I will,” he promises.

 

Dean smiles. “Good. You ready to go in? I’m about to freeze my beans off.”

 

That starts a laugh out of Sam, who has a bit more color to his cheeks, now. Dean takes him by the hand (shut up) and leads him back inside, where it’s warm. Sam has more energy today, doesn’t seem as sleepy, and he’s eager to help Bobby with household tasks. Dean lets them bond, knowing Sam could benefit from hearing he’s loved from multiple sources. Dean works on baby and fixes some other shit for Bobby.

 

Their Christmas tradition is to watch  _ Die Hard  _ with KFC, so Dean goes out to get the food and the DVD rental. He comes back with Sam already on the couch, and he crowds up next to him, kissing his temple and handing him a bucket of wings and calling him a bitch.

 

Sam kicks Dean’s shin when Dean gets up and calls him a jerk while Dean gets the movie set up. Bobby calls them both idjits before retiring upstairs for the night.

 

The movie opens, and Dean wraps an arm around Sam. Sam leans his head on Dean’s shoulder.

 

They’re past the part with the dumb office party when Sam clears his throat. He’s sounding way better now, breathes just fine. “Uh, Dean,” Sam starts. “Thank you.”

 

“No problem, Sammy,” Dean says, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair. “No problem.”

 

Dean loves Sam. It’s scared him sometimes. He’d do anything for Sam. And Sam would do anything for him.

 

But Dean refuses to guilt himself over it. All this trip showed him is that Sam needs to know that. He needs to know what Dean’s been hiding, even if they never do anything about it. ‘Cause if Sam doesn’t know, he’ll think the opposite, and that would kill Dean. Going through the wringer makes these things more obvious. He hopes it’s obvious to Sam, too.

 

It doesn’t matter what form it takes, or, uh how far they go, or whatever. As long as he’s got Sam, as long as he loves him, the world makes sense.

 

Big bads can wait for one damn day while Dean holds Sam and cheers Bruce Willis on.

 

The End

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! This was written super quickly so apologies for any little bumps. 
> 
> Love you all <3


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